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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946895">Let's Misbehave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gluupor/pseuds/gluupor'>gluupor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries Fusion, Detectives, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:07:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,444</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946895</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gluupor/pseuds/gluupor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Neil's always been a murder magnet. At least working as an amateur private detective allows him to investigate other people's murders as opposed to worrying about his own.</p><p>A Miss Fisher AU featuring very little historical accuracy, banter, many hats, and plenty of manly pining.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>356</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/gifts">moonix</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sometimes we say we're not going to do something and then someone dares us to. This is a birthday gift for Anna. Happy birthday, pal! Getting to know you was one of the smartest decisions I made all year.</p><p>I'm trying something new with this fic, ie. it's not completely written already. I will add chapters as I write them. So get ready for a haphazard update schedule, plot holes, and me contradicting information already provided! It should be fun.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andrew tried not to look too impatient as the newly-widowed woman in front of him dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. His fingers twitched for a cigarette; he hated when they got emotional. If only this Mrs Baxter could answer his routine questions about her husband’s untimely death without all the crying and trembling and fainting, then he could wrap this up. It was all fairly standard; it looked like a run-of-the-mill case of a harassed servant killing her boss. Andrew couldn’t even blame the maid for poisoning the master of the house’s breakfast—from the few mutterings of the man’s comportment Andrew had been able to glean from the household staff, he deserved it. If Andrew had his way, he wouldn’t even charge people with these kinds of murders, but he couldn’t control the law.</p><p>As Mrs Baxter wept fresh tears into her handkerchief, the door to the room opened, giving Andrew a reprieve from her hysterics.</p><p>He turned to the man hovering nervously in the doorway. “Did you send the guests home, Boyd?” he asked.</p><p>“Yes, sir,” replied Constable Boyd promptly.</p><p>He was fresh-faced and eager to please, barely out of the police academy. They hadn’t been working together long; Andrew went through constables faster than he went through clean suits; their general idiocy and naivety grated his nerves. Andrew was fairly certain he’d never been so young.</p><p>“And the specialist you called for arrived,” continued Boyd, reading from the pad where he recorded his shorthand notes.</p><p>“Alright,” said Andrew, beginning to turn away before the words registered. “What specialist?”</p><p>“Uhh…” said Boyd, flipping back a couple pages. “The one you called for?”</p><p>“I didn’t call anyone,” corrected Andrew, “and the coroner’s already taken the body away. What did this so-called specialist’s credentials say?”</p><p>“Um.” Boyd stared hard at his notes and cleared his throat.</p><p>“You let someone access the crime scene without looking at their credentials?”</p><p>“He said he knew you,” protested Boyd.</p><p>“He said he knew me, personally?” checked Andrew, leaving the room and heading for the ostentatious marble staircase leading up to the second floor.</p><p>“He said he knew the office in charge,” admitted Boyd, following close on his heels. “Now that you mention it, he was dressed rather oddly for a professional.”</p><p>“Rule one for working for me,” said Andrew dryly, taking the stairs two at a time. “Don’t let strangers into my crime scenes.”</p><p>He tried the door of the washroom and, to his surprise, it opened without trouble.</p><p>“Do you normally burst into lavatories without knocking?” asked the room’s occupant, a man crouching beside the chalk outline of the victim. “I could have been doing something unmentionable.”</p><p>“Like disturbing a crime scene?” replied Andrew.</p><p>The man looked back over his shoulder and grinned wickedly, dimpling his left cheek. Andrew could see what Boyd meant about the man’s clothes. He was wearing a long duster-style coat and a matching navy cloche hat with reddish curls peeking out, hardly appropriate for a crime scene. To top it off, he had accessorized with a truly impractical skinny scarf made from satin or silk that hung down so far it pooled on the tiled floor as he crouched. It was a fashion more typically favoured by women, but it wasn’t altogether uncommon for wealthy, idle men in Melbourne these days—the gay young set that Andrew’s cousin Nicky ran with dressed in a similar way—and this man pulled it off better than most.</p><p>“Are we thinking poison?” asked the man, aiming his question at Boyd.</p><p>“Yes, it’s looking like—” Boyd automatically answered, before a look from Andrew cut him off.</p><p>“Who are you?” Andrew asked the interloper. “How did you get in here?”</p><p>“I was invited, of course,” said the man. “The Honourable Mr Nathaniel Hatford, at your service. Although, I do prefer being called Neil.”</p><p>“He’s one of the Baxters’ guests,” supplied Boyd.</p><p>“You mean, one of the guests you told me had left?” inquired Andrew.</p><p>Boyd’s face coloured blotchily. “Yes, sir.”</p><p>“Now that you know my name, it would be polite for you to introduce yourself,” interjected Mr Hatford, still smiling winningly. “I am newly returned to Melbourne, you see, and I might have need of a strapping detective.”</p><p>Andrew raised an eyebrow. “I am at no one’s beck and call.”</p><p>“Excepting the general public’s,” Mr Hatford said blithely. “For all I know, you may be impersonating a police officer to gain access to this crime scene as you haven’t provided any identification.”</p><p>“If you do not vacate this room within the next two minutes, I will arrest you for interfering with a police investigation,” Andrew told him. “That will prove my profession.”</p><p>“I thought all officers of the law were required to introduce themselves before taking such an action?” pressed Mr Hatford.</p><p>“Detective Inspector Andrew Minyard,” Andrew gave in. “City South Police.”</p><p>“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Detective Inspector,” said Mr Hatford, giving him a smart salute.</p><p>Andrew waited a beat. “If you are expecting me to return the sentiment…”</p><p>Mr Hatford laughed. “No, of course not; you’re far too intent on being unfriendly.” He turned back to the chalk outline. “So, poison? Given the lack of blood. He could have been strangled or suffocated, I suppose, but then his limbs wouldn’t be pulled in like this.” He cocked his head. “And his wife likely wouldn’t be suffering from mild effects of poison, probably from ingesting a smaller amount of whatever killed him.” Which would account for the paleness and the fainting spell and the trembling.</p><p>Andrew briefly closed his eyes in annoyance at himself, and half-turned to Boyd. “Will you…?”</p><p>“On my way to check on Mrs Baxter, sir,” said Boyd, retreating.</p><p>Mr Hatford stood gracefully. “Who do you think—Good Lord, are you actually shorter than I am?” he asked, glee lacing his tone. He stepped closer to Andrew. “You are, aren’t you? Even if I take off my shoes.” He kicked off his heeled, strappy sandals and stood next to Andrew, using his flat hand to measure their heights against each other, coming off about a hand’s width taller.</p><p>“You are contaminating a crime scene,” said Andrew stiffly, desperately trying to get the whole situation back under his control. He had no idea how it had gone so far off the rails.</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m wearing gloves,” replied Mr Hatford, brandishing a hand encased in lacy fabric.</p><p>Andrew sent a glance down at the nuisance’s bare feet and then at his own wrist watch. “Mr Hatford,” he announced. “I’m arresting you for obstruction of a police investigation.” He pulled out his handcuffs.</p><p>Mr Hatford winked one of his kohl-rimmed blue eyes. “Interested in restraining me, Detective Inspector?” he asked archly. “You wouldn’t be the first. I don’t particularly care for handcuffs, but I do enjoy the feeling of silk against my skin.”</p><p>Andrew willed himself not to imagine the man in front of him tied to a bed with colourful scarves, bare skin on display.</p><p>Mr Hatford held out his hands willingly. “Is this because I took off my shoes or because I made fun of your height?” he asked. “It was bad manners, I know. It’s the first time I’ve met an adult man shorter than me and the power went straight to my head.”</p><p>“Neither,” said Andrew, snapping the cuffs in place. “I warned you what would happen if you didn’t leave within two minutes.”</p><p>“So you did,” agreed Mr Hatford, watching Andrew speculatively. “And are you a man of your word, Detective Inspector?”</p><p>“I keep my promises,” said Andrew, making sure the other man understood the underlying threat.</p><p>“Good to know.” Mr Hatford gestured to the exit with his shackled hands. “Shall we?”</p>
<hr/><p>On their arrival at the station, Andrew left Mr Hatford in the care of Boyd; perhaps foolishly, as Mr Hatford had thoroughly charmed the younger constable with ceaseless chatter, mostly about football, during their trip to the station. They were speaking excitedly about the upcoming season, and whether their beloved Abbotsford Foxes would prevail against their longtime rivals, the West Melbourne Ravens.</p><p>“And you, Detective Inspector?” asked Mr Hatford. “Are you for the Foxes or the Ravens?”</p><p>“Neither,” replied Andrew brusquely.</p><p>“Not a football fan?”</p><p>“It’s an inane pastime.”</p><p>“He pulls for Collingwood,” said Boyd, in the manner of one speaking about a relative on their deathbed.</p><p>“No hope for him, then,” agreed Mr Hatford, shaking his head sadly.</p><p>Andrew left them in the booking area as Boyd asked Mr Hatford to shed his outerwear, and passed into his private office while removing his own hat and trench coat. He straightened his suit jacket and crossed the room to his desk, picking up his phone to call the coroner to see what time the autopsy results would be available for review.</p><p>“Honestly, Andrew,” Dr Renee Walker answered her telephone. “It’s been less than a hour. Impatience is your middle name.”</p><p>“Virtue was already taken,” quipped Andrew. He wasn’t impatient, he just wanted the case finished with. Then the unfairly attractive socialite who’d sashayed his way into it would lose interest and disappear.</p><p>“Mr—” came Boyd’s pained voice through the open office door. “Can you not—Mr Hatford, you have to stay still, sir.”</p><p>Andrew bid Renee goodbye and headed out to see what absurd thing Mr Hatford was doing now. Boyd was attempting to get a photograph for Mr Hatford’s booking file and he wasn’t cooperating in the slightest. He was leaning suggestively against the height-marked wall, his brightly coloured shirt showing off his collarbones. He smoldered at the camera and pulled a pose as soon as Boyd moved to take a picture. Andrew cleared his throat and leaned against his door frame to watch.</p><p>“Please, sir, you can’t do that,” said Boyd helplessly.</p><p>“It doesn’t matter, Matt,” replied Mr Hatford, who was now apparently on a first-name basis with Andrew’s underling. “Detective Inspector Minyard isn’t going to press charges, is he?” He blew Andrew a kiss just as the camera’s shutter closed. Boyd groaned.</p><p>“It would be a lot of paperwork,” said Andrew evenly.</p><p>“Exactly,” said Mr Hatford. “All I have to do is wait for my ride, who’s almost here, and then I can be on my merry way.”</p><p>Andrew would agree except—“Why is your ride already on its way?”</p><p>“Why, I called her when I was leaving the Baxters’, of course.”</p><p>“On your way out of the house?” repeated Andrew. “While in police custody?” He turned slowly to glare at Boyd.</p><p>Boyd smiled sheepishly. “He said it was an emergency, sir.”</p><p>“Rule two of working for me,” said Andrew. “Don’t let charming criminals sweet talk you into letting them do whatever they want.”</p><p>“You think I’m charming?” asked Mr Hatford, perking up.</p><p>“Did I say charming? I must have misspoken,” said Andrew. “I meant manipulative.”</p><p>“I prefer to call myself crafty or wily,” retorted Mr Hatford. “Maybe devious.”</p><p>“Conniving?” suggested Andrew.</p><p>“You make me sound so tawdry,” complained Mr Hatford as a young woman entered the station. She was dressed in a ladies’ suit and reminded Andrew of multiple past schoolmarms, appearing competent and efficient.</p><p>“Dan!” called Mr Hatford triumphantly, moving to put his coat and hat back on. “Finally. Gentlemen, this is my companion, Miss Danielle Wilds.”</p><p>Constable Boyd’s eyes widened as they fell on Miss Wilds. Andrew half-expected him to start drooling. “...A <em>romantic</em> companion, sir?” he blurted.</p><p>Mr Hatford shot an amused look to Andrew regarding Boyd’s lack of tact. “No, not at all,” he said. “I have no interest in all that nonsense. I recently employed Dan because I have the sort of inquiring mind that gets me into trouble.”</p><p>“You lack common sense, you mean,” clarified Miss Wilds. “You need me to get you out of the ridiculous situations you find yourself in.”</p><p>“Excuse me,” said Mr Hatford, affronted. “We have known each other for exactly twenty four hours and in that time I’ve had to convince you not to knife someone.”</p><p>“He had it coming,” shrugged Miss Wilds.</p><p>“But… you <em>didn’t</em> knife him, surely?” worried Boyd.</p><p>“Don’t fret,” said Mr Hatford, patting Boyd twice on the chest. “I thought up something much better to punish him.”</p><p>“Did you murder him,” deadpanned Andrew.</p><p>“Well, if I had I wouldn’t tell <em>you</em> about it, would I?” replied Mr Hatford. “Although, you’d never catch me anyway.” He smiled one last time, flashing his single dimple, and joined Miss Wilds. “Oh, Detective Inspector,” he said, snapping his fingers and turning at the last moment before exiting the station. “The maid isn’t the murderess. My money’s on Mrs Baxter.”</p><p>“She was also poisoned,” argued Boyd.</p><p>“To throw you off the scent,” said Mr Hatford. “I don’t know either of them personally, but from all the accounts I’ve heard, their union isn’t a happy one, yet she repeated multiple times today how much she loved him. Which, yes, could be the rose-tinted glasses of the newly widowed, but,” he continued, plucking a folded document from an inside pocket of his coat, “I found this in the library, which shows she gets control over his businesses and bank accounts in the event of his untimely death.” He held out the document in Andrew’s direction.</p><p>Andrew debated for several moments before reluctantly pushing himself off the door frame and sauntering over to take the paper from Mr Hatford’s outstretched hand.</p><p>“Didn’t you search him when you took him into custody, sir?” asked Boyd hesitantly, once Mr Hatford and Miss Wilds had taken their leave.</p><p>“Rule three,” sighed Andrew. “Don’t get distracted by flattering clothing and shameless flirting.”</p>
<hr/><p>“Your cousin is here,” said Dan, leading the way up to Neil’s hotel suite.</p><p>“And you didn’t think to tell me until just now?” demanded Neil. “Not before, when we could have escaped?”</p><p>“Would you ‘escaping’ from your cousin involve me coming back here to explain to him where you are?”</p><p>“Well, yes,” admitted Neil. “You are my employee. I hired you to do the distasteful things I don’t want to bother with.”</p><p>“Spoken like a true aristocrat,” said Dan, unlocking the door and gesturing Neil through it. “Go make nice with your cousin.”</p><p>“Fine,” Neil hissed at her. “But I’m going to be very grumpy about it.” He breezed into the room carelessly. “Cousin Kevin, how lovely to see you,” he lied, taking off his gloves and coat and handing them to Dan.</p><p>“Where have you been?” grumped Kevin. “You disappeared from the Baxters’.”</p><p>“He was arrested,” supplied Dan, reaching for Neil’s hat pins as he removed them.</p><p>Kevin clutched his chest. “You were what?” he gasped. “Do you have no care for how you’ll ruin my reputation?”</p><p>“I’m not sure how my being arrested affects your reputation,” said Neil.</p><p>“Well, soon people will know I’m related to a felon,” sputtered Kevin.</p><p>“I’m hardly a felon; the police didn’t even press charges,” said Neil, rolling his eyes. “Besides, people always pretend to forget about the criminals in your family tree if you’re rich enough. I should know.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Kevin, clearing his throat. He always became awkward and changed the subject whenever Neil mentioned his father. “Some tea, Miss Wilds?” he said, in a clear attempt to get rid of her.</p><p>“Right away, sir,” replied Dan, her words dripping with condescension.</p><p>Kevin frowned after her. “Your new secretary is lacking in manners,” he complained.</p><p>“Hence why I like her,” said Neil, passing through the suite into his bedroom.</p><p>Kevin followed him. “We missed our chance to catch up this morning.”</p><p>“What a pity our host dropped dead.”</p><p>“Yes, well… What brings you to town?” Kevin rallied valiantly. “Are you here to be married?”</p><p>“I thought I made it clear that I have no intention of ever marrying,” said Neil, rifling through his suitcases to find appropriate clothing. He couldn’t wait to have his own place and get everything unpacked; he hated living in such disorganization.</p><p>“I thought you’d have seen the light now that you’re past thirty,” said Kevin. “You need to start making heirs to pass your eventual title on to.”</p><p>“I can just find a distant nephew or something,” said Neil dismissively. “Maybe one of yours, once you get around to impregnating your wife.”</p><p>Kevin looked like he may argue, but clearly the thought of his future child becoming the Baron of Richmond appealed to him. “You should still have your own,” he said, suddenly sounding less insistent.</p><p>“It’s not like having heirs helped my uncle Stuart.”</p><p>Kevin actually gasped out loud. “That’s very insensitive of you, Neil! You know he lost all his sons and several nephews in the war.”</p><p>“Of course I know; their deaths are the only reason for my current wealth and status,” said Neil. “I just meant that there’s no guarantee I’ll keep my heirs if I ever do get around to making them—which I won’t.”</p><p>“It’s not like there’s going to be another <em>war</em>,” said Kevin, scandalized.</p><p>“Let’s hope not,” agreed Neil, throwing his chosen garments over the changing screen in the corner of the room.</p><p>“Regardless, it’s past time you got married,” prompted Kevin.</p><p>Neil sighed in exasperation. “I have been in the country for three days, Kevin,” he pointed out. “Who, exactly, do you think I should be engaged to? I suppose I could have proposed to Miss Wilds instead of hiring her.”</p><p>Kevin wrinkled his nose like he’d smelled something rotten.</p><p>“Or Mrs Baxter is newly available,” mused Neil.</p><p>“Really, Neil!”</p><p>“Or I guess I could have asked if Detective Inspector Minyard was free when he was arresting me,” concluded Neil.</p><p>“You can’t have Andrew; he’s already married,” cut in Kevin.</p><p>Neil raised an eyebrow. “Andrew, is it? You’re on a first name basis with a lowly DI? I thought you only spent time among those with pocketbooks big enough to impress you.”</p><p>“It’s not whatever you’re insinuating with that tone,” sniffed Kevin. “He was one of the men in my unit during the war. He saved my life at least once.”</p><p>“I wonder if he regrets it,” pondered Neil, stepping behind the screen to change his clothing. “I can’t believe you have old war buddies I’ve never heard of, Kevin. You’ve been holding out on me.”</p><p>“It’s not as if you spend hours reminiscing about your time in the muddy trenches,” complained Kevin. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention any war stories.”</p><p>“My whole unit died,” fabricated Neil quickly. It wouldn’t do for Kevin to start questioning his wartime activities. “The Somme, you know.”</p><p>“Yes, hmmm,” said Kevin absently. Neil knew he spent a lot of time drinking away his own grim memories and wouldn’t want to share Neil’s. “Well, if you’re not in town to get married, why have you suddenly returned to the antipodes after all this time?”</p><p>“You know why,” said Neil, tugging on a black silk blouse. He normally avoided wearing black as—according to Allison, at least—it made him look like a washed out ghost, but he couldn’t very well wear bright colours for the break-in he had planned for the evening.</p><p>“I wish you’d forget about him,” sighed Kevin, as they circled back around to a topic he’d already dismissed.</p><p>“I can never,” said Neil. “Did you know he applied for parole?”</p><p>“All the more reason for you to stay away,” said Kevin. “Given that he’s threatened your life on multiple occasions.”</p><p>“That hardly puts him in a class of his own,” returned Neil. “Besides, what good is having status if I don’t use my influence to keep him behind bars where he belongs?” Now fully dressed, he stepped back around the screen. “There. How do I look?”</p><p>“Like a bandit who has been making off with ladies’ clothing,” said Kevin. “Must you dress so outrageously? Couldn’t you stick to a good, sturdy suit like the rest of us?”</p><p>“Boring,” said Neil. “It’s either this or returning to my childhood sartorial choices.”</p><p>Kevin considered. “I supposed gaudy is a better look than peasant,” he allowed. “But please tell me you’re not seriously going out into public like that? Where are you even going?”</p><p>“Oh, you know,” said Neil idly. “Sneaking.” He may have given the police one of the documents he’d lifted from the Baxters’ but he had other leads. However, telling Kevin he was planning on infiltrating a bath house seemed like a poor choice.</p><p>“You’re not still on about that murder, are you?” asked Kevin. “Let the police handle it.”</p><p>“Where’s the fun in that?” asked Neil, making sure all his supplies were in their proper places.</p><p>“It’s dangerous,” argued Kevin. “What makes you think you’ll be safe out there?”</p><p>“Because I have a gun, Kevin,” said Neil, brandishing his snub-nosed gold revolver.</p><p>“Neil!” admonished Kevin.</p><p>“And several knives, but those are secret,” said Neil, bringing a finger to his lips.</p>
<hr/><p>“Did Mrs Baxter confess?” asked constable Boyd the following afternoon, trailing Andrew from the interrogation room back to his office.</p><p>“She did,” said Andrew. With the evidence they’d found, she was sunk even without the confession, but it did tie things up in a nice bow for the future jury.</p><p>“So Mr Hatford was right all along,” said Boyd, sounding awed.</p><p>Andrew felt the need to nip that bit of hero worship in the bud. “Mr Hatford made an educated guess based on his knowledge of the involved parties,” he corrected. “It was our solid police work that solved the case.”</p><p>“Of course, sir,” said Boyd stoutly. “Do you think Mr Hatford will help us with any future cases?”</p><p>Andrew scoffed. “Mr Hatford is a wealthy gentleman who was bored and viewed investigating the murder as a game.”</p><p>“Still, he is the one who originally pointed the finger at the culprit,” said Boyd. “And he was the one who found the connection between Mrs Baxter and the drug trade.”</p><p>“By withholding evidence,” said Andrew. “And breaking into a bath house to snoop around.”</p><p>“You should have seen your face when we found him in the steam room during our raid last night!” laughed Boyd. “With just a tiny towel to cover himself!” He sobered immediately and cleared his throat when Andrew didn’t join in to his mirth. “He made the case more interesting, is all. Sir.”</p><p>“I can assure you, now that he’s amused himself, we’ll not see him again.”</p><p>“That’s a pity,” replied Boyd, his shoulders slumping. “In that case, what should I do with his photos?”</p><p>“What photos?”</p><p>“The arrest photographs I took,” explained Boyd, holding out a manila folder.</p><p>“I’ll deal with them,” said Andrew, taking the folder from Boyd’s unresisting hand. He strode into his office, tossing the unopened folder on his desk and loosening his tie. Sitting back in his chair, he pulled out the glass and the bottle of scotch he kept in a locked drawer for celebrating successful cases or dealing with bad days and poured himself two fingers’ worth.</p><p>He flipped open the folder as he took a sip, and shook his head. Boyd hadn’t managed to get a single usable photograph of Mr Hatford as he posed and pulled faces. The pictures lost something for not being colour; Mr Hatford was such a vibrant personality it seemed wrong somehow.</p><p>Andrew moved to knock the folder into his wastebasket before reconsidering. Perhaps he could keep the pictures in his desk, to look at from time to time. A taste of something he couldn’t have and knew better than to want. Wanting was not allowed for someone with his promises and responsibilities.</p><p>He took one last look at the photos before shutting the folder and placing it in the drawer with his scotch. It wouldn’t harm anyone and no one would ever know.</p><p>It would be his little secret.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I commissioned the artwork from @wafflehouseisdabomb <a href="http://wafflehouseisdabomb.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/wafflehouseisdabomb/?hl=en">instagram</a>. Isn't it amazing?!?!?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here is my annual offering of posting a chapter of a wip on my birthday. I hope you like it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What’s brought us here?” asked Andrew, climbing out of the police wagon onto a busy commercial street. Small shops lined the road and shoppers milled about, brown paper packages carried under their arms.</p><p>“There’s a dead man,” answered Constable Boyd, closing the passenger side door.</p><p>Andrew refrained from rolling his eyes. “Naturally. I was asking after the specifics.”</p><p>“Right, sir,” said Boyd sheepishly. “The bookseller called it in. Apparently one of her customers had a fit and never recovered.”</p><p>“That hardly calls for a murder investigation,” said Andrew.</p><p>“There are a few irregularities…” said Boyd, trailing off.</p><p>“Such as?” asked Andrew. “Boyd?” He looked back at his constable, who’d stopped to stare at something. Andrew followed his eye line. “Is that…?”</p><p>“A real Hispano-Suiza,” marvelled Boyd. “A 46CV, isn’t it? I never thought I’d see one.” He took a step closer to the automobile.</p><p>Andrew had to admit it was a lovely car, shiny, black and powerful. He’d heard cars like this had a top speed of 100 miles per hour and his fingers itched to take the wheel. Driving one required someone both fearless and reckless.</p><p>“What’s it doing here?” wondered Boyd, hovering closer to the car, like a moth drawn to flame. “Do you know how much these things cost?”</p><p>Realization hit Andrew. “Who do we know who is rich, reckless, bored, and likely to be at our murder scene?”</p><p>“Oh!” said Boyd happily. “Do you think he’ll take me for a ride later?”</p><p>Andrew shot him a look. “Do try to act like a proper constable.”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” said Boyd, snapping to attention.</p><p>“I’ll deal with the pest,” said Andrew, heading towards the bookshop that was his current potential crime scene.</p><p>Just outside of the entrance was an inconsolable woman, crying and hugging herself.</p><p>“Boyd,” said Andrew, clearing his throat. “You deal with her; find out who she is and what she knows.”</p><p>Boyd looked vaguely panicked about dealing with a sobbing woman, but Andrew wasn’t about to do it.</p><p>Andrew left him behind and entered the bookshop, encountering two men standing together in obvious shock. One was much older than the other and their features marked them as relatives, likely father and son.</p><p>“Detective Inspector Minyard,” he introduced himself, flashing his identification. “Who are you?”</p><p>“I’m Hiram Schwartz,” said the older man. “This is my son, Simon. I own the building.”</p><p>“Did you see what happened here?”</p><p>“No; my son and I were at an art auction down the street,” Mr Schwartz answered. He gestured outside, towards the crying woman. “Miss Bates rents the space for her shop. She was the only other person in the shop at the time of the accident.”</p><p>“Do you know the deceased?”</p><p>“He’s a friend of mine,” answered the man’s son. “I can’t believe—”</p><p>“Oh, Detective Inspector!” called a cheerful voice from farther in the bookshop. “I was hoping they’d send you.”</p><p>Andrew nodded to the two men and turned to find Mr Hatford leaning suggestively in the doorway. He was wearing a long coat and a loosely draped brown shirt, with long ties dangling from his collar. His hat matched his coat.</p><p>It was not the first time they’d encountered each other since they’d met; for the past month Mr Hatford had turned up at most of Andrew’s crime scenes like a bad penny, claiming some connection to either the victim or someone else associated with the crime. Andrew would suspect him of arranging elaborate murders to amuse himself, except all the murders had been solved to his satisfaction, usually with invaluable help from Mr Hatford. His presence in Andrew’s life was becoming distractingly regular.</p><p>“What are you doing here, Mr Hatford?” asked Andrew tiredly. “I’m sure by now you are aware of my disinclination to let civilians into my crime scenes.”</p><p>“But I’m not a civilian,” said Mr Hatford, brandishing a card and holding it out.</p><p>Andrew considered not taking the card, but decided it was easier to go along with whatever nonsense Mr Hatford was up to. He took a step forward to take the card, noting the script was embroidered, not printed.</p><p><em>Mr Neil A Hatford, Private Detective</em>, it read in gold thread.</p><p>“Fancy,” Andrew said dryly. “However, the Victoria Police are not in need of help from an amateur detective, as they employ several professional ones.”</p><p>“Like yourself?” asked Mr Hatford coyly.</p><p>“Precisely,” replied Andrew. “So if you would kindly vacate my crime scene…?” He knew it was futile to ask, just as Mr Hatford knew Andrew wasn’t going to put any effort into evicting him.</p><p>“Is this a crime scene?” wondered Mr Hatford. “Miss Bates said the deceased was fitting.”</p><p>“That doesn’t usually cause death,” Andrew pointed out. “Therefore, we must treat it as suspicious.”</p><p>“There are other things that qualify as suspicious,” said Mr Hatford, drawing Andrew farther into the bookshop and out of the hearing of the Schwartzes.</p><p>“Such as?”</p><p>“I’m sure a <em>professional</em> detective such as yourself can find the same clues I did,” demurred Mr Hatford. “Especially since you don’t need my help.”</p><p>Andrew pondered his response. Knowing Mr Hatford as he did, he did not expect him to actually leave and mind his own business. It was far more likely that he was going to stand around and watch Andrew examine the scene, making sarcastic comments about how a <em>professional</em> detective could surely never miss something as obvious as he’d already noted. It wasn’t worth the hassle trying to send him away, and truthfully, Andrew didn’t want to. He may be a nuisance, but he’d proven himself intelligent and resourceful over the cases he’d butted into so far.</p><p>“Tell me what you found,” he said, phrasing it as if he were doing Mr Hatford a favour.</p><p>“Ask me nicely,” retorted Mr Hatford, his tone teasing.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Mr Hatford chuckled at Andrew’s denial, but he didn’t press. “Well, if you look in that cupboard there,” he started, pointing, obviously eager to share his observations, “you’ll find a tea service and the kettle’s still warm.”</p><p>“Having a cuppa is hardly a crime,” replied Andrew, opening the indicated cupboard to find precisely what Mr Hatford said he would.</p><p>“Except Miss Bates said she barely knew the victim and that he hadn’t been in here for long before he started seizing,” said Mr Hatford. “However, I found a shattered cup in the tea set and a piece of porcelain underneath the man’s body, almost as if he’d been holding it when he collapsed.”</p><p>“And then she cleaned up the mess and hid the tea pot before getting help,” mused Andrew, crouching beside the body to give it a cursory examination. “Poison, you think?”</p><p>Mr Hatford nodded. “And given how she’s been carrying on, I expect she knows the victim slightly better than she admits.”</p><p>“Along those lines, you never explained what you are doing here,” Andrew pointed out, looking up at Mr Hatford.</p><p>“I was at the auction,” said Mr Hatford, waving away the question like it was an insect buzzing around his head. “I’ve bought a house, you know, and I’m looking for decorative artwork.”</p><p>“So you’re planning on staying around Melbourne?” Andrew made sure to sound put upon.</p><p>“For the time being, anyway,” replied Mr Hatford. “I’m sure you’re thrilled.”</p><p>“Beyond belief,” said Andrew.</p><p>Mr Hatford winked before continuing, “Anyway, when Miss Bates came to get the Schwartzes from the auction, I felt it benefited everyone involved for me to offer my services.”</p><p>“Of course you did,” said Andrew. He stood, not finding anything of interest. “We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s examination to know whether he was poisoned or not.”</p><p>“Excellent,” said Mr Hatford, fishing a small day planner out of an inside pocket of his coat and flipping it open. “When do you expect that will occur? I’ve got a previous engagement this afternoon.”</p><p>“You’re not invited,” said Andrew.</p><p>Mr Hatford pouted and put a hand over his heart. “I thought we’d moved past this, Detective Inspector.”</p><p>“You may waltz your way into my crime scene, but the morgue isn’t open to you,” said Andrew.</p><p>“We’ll see,” was Mr Hatford’s blithe response.</p>
<hr/><p>The following day, Andrew was waiting for a call from Dr Walker so they could go over the autopsy results when Constable Boyd ushered his cousin into his office. Nicky was carrying a trunk and a basket and looked particularly distraught.</p><p>“He insists you know him, sir,” said Boyd apologetically.</p><p>“It’s alright,” said Andrew, closing the file he was perusing. “What’s wrong, Nicky?”</p><p>Nicky dropped his basket on Andrew’s desk and shoved it at him. “Have a scone,” he said, taking a seat in one of the chairs facing Andrew’s desk.</p><p>Andrew helped himself; his cousin was trained as a cook, so he wasn’t about to turn down anything he’d made. “Sacked again?” he asked, eyeing the trunk Nicky had left on the floor.</p><p>“I thought this one would be different,” sighed Nicky, leaning back. He looked exhausted. This was the fourth time he’d lost his job this year alone.</p><p>“You have to give up working in a private households,” said Andrew, not for the first time. “As soon as your employers find out about Erik…”</p><p>“I know,” snapped Nicky, uncharacteristically harsh. “At this rate the only job I’ll be able to keep will be in Little Lon.”</p><p>Andrew frowned disapprovingly. “You will not,” he said. Nicky wouldn’t be spending any time in the red light district if he could help it.</p><p>“What else would you have me do?”</p><p>“Find a better husband.”</p><p>Nicky sat up straight, his eyes flashing with anger. “There’s nothing wrong with him!” he cried. “It’s everyone else.”</p><p>Andrew didn’t agree, but he knew better than to test his cousin’s wrath. Nicky was usually affable and mild, but he defended his husband like a mother animal protecting her young. Andrew had no desire for Nicky to rant at him.</p><p>“Anyway,” said Nicky, deflating when Andrew didn’t rise to meet him, “I lost my board, obviously. We’ll have to stay with you until I can find somewhere else.”</p><p>Andrew paused, a scone halfway to his mouth. “We don’t have room,” he said.</p><p>“Don’t be daft,” chided Nicky. “You have three bedrooms. It won’t be for long.”</p><p>Andrew licked his lips and tried to come up with an excuse that didn’t reveal that although his house had three bedrooms, all three of them were in use. He was incredibly thankful when Mr Hatford swaned into his office, completely capturing Nicky’s attention.</p><p>“I have a development on our case,” declared Mr Hatford, before he caught sight of Nicky and stopped short. “Oh, Matt didn’t say you were occupied.”</p><p>“I’m not,” said Andrew.</p><p>“Don’t be rude,” said Mr Hatford. Then he introduced himself to Nicky, who was looking at him in awe.</p><p>“I know who you are,” said Nicky quickly, standing and shaking Mr Hatford’s offered hand. “I’m Andrew’s cousin.”</p><p>“Nicholas Klose,” said Andrew. Nicky shot him a frown; he rarely used his married name due to unwanted backlash.</p><p>“Oh, are you from Germany?” asked Mr Hatford politely. Unlike most, he didn’t appear perturbed by the idea.</p><p>“My husband has German ancestry,” replied Nicky stiffly. “He grew up here, though. Fought for the allies in the war and everything,” he was hasty to tack on, again glaring in Andrew’s direction.</p><p>Mr Hatford looked between them. “What do you do?” he asked, making it sound like the stilted smalltalk actually interested him.</p><p>“I’m a cook,” replied Nicky.</p><p>“Scone?” asked Andrew, offering up Nicky’s basket.</p><p>Mr Hatford took one and shoved the whole thing into his mouth, completely eschewing any manners his class demanded. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Did you—” he started, but his mouth full of crumbs prevented him from saying anything more before he swallowed. “Did you make these?” he asked Nicky.</p><p>“Yes,” said Nicky. “They’re my specialty.”</p><p>“Who do you work for?” asked Mr Hatford, picking up another scone.</p><p>“I’m between jobs at the moment,” said Nicky, bristling slightly.</p><p>“Work for me,” blurted Mr Hatford.</p><p>Both Nicky and Andrew stared at him.</p><p>“Sorry, I,” said Mr Hatford, coughing to clear his throat. Andrew watched with interest; he’d never seen Mr Hatford at a loss before. He’d been more than half convinced the man didn’t experience embarrassment, yet here he was, blushing. “I don’t mean to sound forward—”</p><p>“That’s a first,” huffed Andrew.</p><p>Mr Hatford shot him a look and lost his momentary self-consciousness, now smiling rakishly at Nicky. “See, I’ve just bought a house. It’s a neat, bijou townhouse in St. Kilda, since I couldn’t find anything with turrets. Your country has a sad lack of turreted estates.”</p><p>Andrew caught Nicky’s eye and knew they were both thinking about Erik’s reaction to what Mr Hatford was saying.</p><p>“Anyway,” continued Mr Hatford, “I’ve employed a housekeeper, and I have a secretary and a… personal valet,” Andrew noted the hesitation and wondered at it, “but none of us can cook anything edible. I’ve been living off burned toast and flavourless sludge for days, Mr Klose. You must save me,” he entreated.</p><p>Nicky would be hard pressed to say no to any offer of employment and this one came so sweetly wrapped that he had no hope of resisting Mr Hatford’s reliable charms. Andrew thought that he, personally, may be the only person in all of Melbourne who was indifferent to them.</p><p>“Well, yes, if you want me,” said Nicky.</p><p>Mr Hatford took a third scone from the basket. “Did you miss the part where I’ve not eaten anything good for days?” he said, this time nibbling delicately. “Honestly, I’ve thrown money away on far stupider things.” He dug one of his cards out of his pocket, before patting his coat with a frown. “Can I borrow a pen?” he asked Andrew.</p><p>Andrew handed one over and Mr Hatford bent over the desk to write something on the card.</p><p>“I will pay you four pounds a week,” he said decisively. “Plus room and board, of course.”</p><p>Nicky’s eyes widened. He’d never been paid such a high sum before. But—“My husband,” he broke in.</p><p>Mr Hatford looked up. “He’s welcome to stay with you,” he said confusedly, clearly not understanding Nicky’s hesitation.</p><p>“He’s a red ragger,” supplied Andrew, cutting to the quick. It was easier to get it over and out with now; every other time one of Nicky’s employers found out Erik’s political leanings, Nicky was swiftly out of a job. Andrew’s own job meant that he and Erik agreed on virtually nothing, except wanting Nicky to be happy.</p><p>“Oh,” said Mr Hatford, glancing between Andrew and Nicky. “Is he the reason you’re out of work?”</p><p>Nicky swallowed and nodded, expression halfway fearful and halfway fierce.</p><p>“I’ll bet,” chuckled Mr Hatford. “A communist under their roof? Everyone of the bourgeoisie I know would hastily get rid of him, still shocked by the Russian revolution.” He grinned at Nicky. “As long as he promises not to eat me when the revolution comes, he’s welcome at my house.”</p><p>“What if he decides to kill you when the revolution starts?” asked Andrew, ignoring yet another one of Nicky’s glares.</p><p>“He wouldn’t be the first to try,” said Mr Hatford with a wink. He stepped closer to Andrew and replaced the pen in his inside jacket pocket, smoothing out the front after he did so. Their faces were very close together. Andrew breathed in carefully and kept his face blank.</p><p>Mr Hatford flitted back to Nicky, handing over his card. “Give this to whoever answers the door; it’ll be either Dan—that’s Miss Wilds—or Mr Wymack. They’ll get you set up.”</p><p>Nicky took that card and cradled it as if it was a fragile bird. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” he said rapturously.</p><p>“By the by, what profession is your husband?” asked Mr Hatford, brushing off Nicky’s thanks. The earnest gratitude seemed to rattle him.</p><p>“He drives a taxi,” said Nicky. “Sometimes he works on the docks for extra cash.”</p><p>“Hmmm,” said Mr Hatford. “He must have a wide acquaintance. Especially among the rougher sort who live and work in that area.”</p><p>“Yes, he does,” nodded Nicky, again looking worried.</p><p>“I wonder if he’d be willing to help me find someone.”</p><p>“I’m sure he would,” said Nicky, although Andrew wasn’t convinced that was true. “I’ll talk to him straight away.”</p><p>“I’m looking for a man who has been living on the streets,” said Mr Hatford. “His name is Red Andy, and he is a decorated soldier suffering from the effects of shell shock.”</p><p>Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Boyd informs me that Miss Bates named a man of exactly that description as the only other patron in her shop before the suspicious death yesterday,” he said.</p><p>Mr Hatford fairly twinkled in his direction. “So she did,” he said smugly.</p><p>Andrew waited for Nicky’s flurry of thanks and assurances and farewells to disappear along with Nicky himself before he pressed any further. “Does this sudden interest in a man thought to be frequenting the bookshop simply to warm up have anything to do with the way you charged in here like a freight train?”</p><p>“A charming freight train, at least,” said Mr Hatford. “And yes.” He didn’t elaborate.</p><p>“You found something of interest to my case?” asked Andrew. After another pause where Mr Hatford kept silent, he sighed. “Our case?”</p><p>“Yes,” said Mr Hatford, taking a seat across from Andrew. His eyes were shining with anticipation and he clasped his hands together in front of him like a small child at prayer. “Last night I was having trouble sleeping and it occurred to me that the book the victim was returning was perhaps important. So I headed over to the bookshop.”</p><p>“Right then?” asked Andrew. “You decided to break into a crime scene in the middle of the night?”</p><p>“I visited the scene of my investigation when I had a spare moment,” corrected Mr Hatford.</p><p>Andrew glanced heavenward for guidance, despite not expecting anything from a being who’d never helped him before. “Go on.”</p><p>“While I was searching the catalogue to find which book he returned, someone broke in.”</p><p>“Someone other than you, you mean?”</p><p>“Obviously other than me,” scoffed Mr Hatford. “It was dark, but I could tell it was a man from his dress and build. He went straight over to the section of the returned book, so I told him to freeze and hand it over.”</p><p>Andrew squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He had a sneaking suspicion this story only got worse.</p><p>“He tipped a bookcase over onto me, which made me drop my gun, and he took off, heading for the roof. I chased after him—”</p><p>“Of course you did.”</p><p>“—and then he shot at me! Can you believe it?”</p><p>“He can’t have been the first,” said Andrew.</p><p>Mr Hatford’s lips quirked into a smile. “In any case, I did the only thing I could.”</p><p>“You called for help?” suggested Andrew futilely.</p><p>“I threw a knife into his shoulder,” said Mr Hatford, with an air that he was saying something obvious.</p><p>“Naturally.”</p><p>“Anyway, the suspect is a man taller than me—which, yes, I know doesn’t really narrow it down—with a knife wound in his left shoulder.”</p><p>“Shall I search the city for anyone with such a knife wound?” asked Andrew. “Like looking for a foot to fit Cinderella’s slipper?”</p><p>“Well, first I thought you might like to know about the book he took,” said Mr Hatford, looking very self-satisfied. “He dropped it when I stabbed him.”</p><p>“Have we finally arrived at the point?” asked Andrew. “What book?”</p><p>“Nothing interesting,” said Mr Hatford. “Until I sliced into the spine and I found a document hidden inside.”</p><p>Andrew hesitated. “Do you often destroy innocent harmless books by slicing their spines?”</p><p>Mr Hatford rolled his eyes, which was rich given how Andrew had refrained from doing so at his antics. “Of course not. But it was a common place for messages to be hidden by spies during the war… so I’ve heard.” There was something off about his tone, but Andrew ignored it in favour of taking the yellowed, creased piece of paper he offered.</p><p>“What does this have to do with Red Andy?” he asked, smoothing out the paper. It was a torn page from an old book, written in a language Andrew didn’t recognize. There were handwritten notes along the margins, including something that looked like a chemical formula.</p><p>“The younger Mr Schwartz informed me that the victim was a chemist, looking into the age-old alchemical formula of how to turn lead into gold.”</p><p>“Impossible,” Andrew dismissed.</p><p>“Yes, but he may have found something of interest,” said Mr Hatford. “Only why would he be leaving it in the spine of a book? I figure he was selling it, and whoever he was selling it to likely left his payment—and possibly a deathly surprise—in a different book. And the only other patron that morning was…” He held up his hands triumphantly.</p><p>“Alright, you may have something,” Andrew admitted. “Although, I still think the owner poisoned him.”</p><p>“We’ll see during the autopsy, won’t we?”</p><p>“You’re not invited,” Andrew reminded him.</p><p>“Are you sure? Because when I spoke to Renee yesterday, she said I was welcome to come.”</p><p>Andrew shook his head in disbelief. “You are acquainted with Dr Walker?”</p><p>“Yes, of course! Renee’s an old friend of an old friend of mine,” replied Mr Hatford, smiling easily.</p><p>Andrew sighed, and again glanced upwards. He’d thought Renee had good sense, but apparently she was as taken with Mr Hatford as all the other weak-minded fools.</p>
<hr/><p>It was later than he’d planned when Andrew pulled up behind the parked Hispano-Suiza automobile. Matt had gotten his desired trip in the car with Mr Hatford after the autopsy and had come back windswept and wide-eyed, calling Mr Hatford a devil behind the wheel.</p><p>Andrew eyed the house it was parked in front of; it was grand and ostentatious in a way he expected from Mr Hatford. It was three storeys tall and rectangular; it was covered in a white stucco with red accents that made it look like a large, white cake. All the upper windows were dark, but faint light shone through the front entrance. It appeared at least one inhabitant was still awake.</p><p>He hoisted Nicky’s trunk out of his car and lugged it up the front path, passing a wrought iron gate and a thick hedge. He knocked lightly at the door and took a step back to wait. Just as he was starting to believe the door would go unanswered, it was cracked open and a large man met his eyes with a hint of menace.</p><p>Andrew stood up straighter against the unexpected man. He was tall, probably over six feet, and his expression was assessing. It felt as if he was seeing more of Andrew than he was willing to reveal with his tired, grey eyes. Andrew noted several navy tattoos on his bare arms.</p><p>“Yes?” the man asked, breaking their silent standoff.</p><p>Andrew kicked at the trunk. “These are Nicky Hemmick’s belongings.”</p><p>The man watched him without moving.</p><p>“I was under the impression he had a job here?” Andrew would have assumed he’d gotten the wrong house, if it weren’t for the car out front. “I’m his cousin.”</p><p>“Wymack?” came a familiar voice from inside the house. “Who is it?”</p><p>The man was evidently the Mr Wymack that Mr Hatford had mentioned earlier, although he did not look like a personal valet. His behaviour and bearing spoke more of a bodyguard. Nonetheless, he opened the door wider to reveal the main entrance way. Rooms branched off to both the right and the left and an oriental-carpeted stairway led straight back into the house. Mr Hatford was halfway down the stairs, wrapped in an emerald green dressing gown threaded with golden embroidery. He was barefoot and otherwise unadorned, looking younger than Andrew had ever seen him.</p><p>“Why, Detective Inspector, how lovely for you to visit,” he said upon setting eyes on Andrew.</p><p>“I have Nicky’s possessions,” said Andrew, picking up the trunk and taking a step into the hall.</p><p>Mr Wymack closed the door behind him and turned to Mr Hatford. “Need anything?” he asked.</p><p>“No, Wymack, thank you,” said Mr Hatford. “I’ll take it from here.”</p><p>Wymack gave Andrew one last calculating look, and then disappeared into the room on the left, a dining room. Mr Hatford seemed to float down the stairs.</p><p>“You’ll be happy to know your cousin-in-law was successful at finding Red Andy,” he said as he did. “The man’s currently sleeping off a bender under his and Nicky’s supervision. I can fetch Nicky, if you want?”</p><p>“No, I only want to leave this,” said Andrew, setting down the trunk.</p><p>“Nightcap?” asked Mr Hatford.</p><p>Andrew knew he should be getting home but he found himself nodding and following Mr Hatford into the room on the right, a sitting room, complete with fireplace, bookshelves full to bursting, and fashionable armchairs and settees. Mr Hatford made for his drinks cabinet, weaving his way across the room.</p><p>“You seem like a scotch man,” he commented.</p><p>“You’re right,” replied Andrew.</p><p>Mr Hatford poured the drink and handed it over, before draping himself artfully across one of the couches. Andrew gingerly took a seat in one of the stiff armchairs, and accepted the offer of a cigarette.</p><p>“You really think a washed up drunk will have useful information?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink. It was extremely high quality liquor.</p><p>Mr Hatford shrugged. “I’ll get some food into him and see,” he said. “He’s our only lead right now.” Renee had found the victim was poisoned but hadn’t ingested it, nor did the teapot from the bookshop contain anything out of the ordinary. The only evident motive was the one Mr Hatford had deduced.</p><p>“If he did place a book for the victim in the shop, it’s likely still there,” said Andrew. “After you speak to him, we can look for it.”</p><p>“We?” asked Mr Hatford archly.</p><p>“You might as well tag along,” said Andrew, lighting up his gasper. “You’ve been involved in every other part of this case.”</p><p>“Are you finally admitting it’s <em>our</em> case, Detective Inspector?” Mr Hatford sounded delighted.</p><p>“I supposed I am, Mr Hatford,” conceded Andrew, exhaling a plume of smoke.</p><p>Mr Hatford smiled and took a drag of his own cigarette, tipping his head back to blow smoke rings. “How much longer will you hold out before you call me Neil?” he asked, watching the smoke drift lazily towards the ceiling.</p><p>Andrew didn’t answer right away, and they smoked in silence for several minutes. Mr Hatford eventually nodded, his expression wry, and stubbed out his cigarette.</p><p>Andrew finished his drink and stood. “Neil,” he said carefully. “In that case, I suppose you’d better call me Andrew.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can be found on tumblr <a href="http://gluupor.tumblr.com">@gluupor</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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